Published by Smashwords
Sculpting the Heart with Art Therapy
By Joyce White
Ebook for:
Sculpting the Heart: Surviving Depression with:
Art Therapy by Joyce White
ISBN: 978-1-4343-2066-7
I have through the decade searched for joy and identity through creative self-expression. I personally believe being happily engaged in writing and art making is better than not; and secondly, living without depression, pain and anger is better than living with them. If you're doing something artful, and smiling, look out, you're probably having fun. Every word written is a victory against dysfunction. Writing and making art put me in touch with my inner artist who was choking to create a new me, a happy, self-achieving me. I've been slowly and quietly growing and changing into the person I've always wanted to be, a writer, a poet and an authority on surviving depression with Art Therapy. It is my hope my web, books, e-Books and reviews will help others as much as working on them have helped me. I’m Joyce White, I’m Winged for Art Therapy.
CHAPTERS
Living in the Moment
Journaling My Heart
Creative Journaling
Spontaneous Imaging
Forgetting & Forgiving
Assembling Found Objects
Living & Loving
The American Art Therapy Association advises Therapy is an established mental health profession that uses the creative process of art making to improve and enhance the physical, mental and emotional well-being of individuals of all ages. It is based on the belief that the creative process involved in artistic self-expression helps people to resolve, conflicts and problems, develop interpersonal skills, manage behavior, reduce stress, increase self-esteem and self-awareness, and achieve insight..”
There is nothing like using e-books and webs via the internet to acquire new ideas much like a painter uses his canvas. Creative expression is about growth, change and enlightenment. It reinforces the power of life and how special we all can be. It is my hope, for one brief, breathless moment, you will wake up to your own divine gifts while reading about how I awoke to mine.
If we’re going to be spending time together, you may want to know a little more about me. I come from a family that is prettily packaged and talented but somewhat dysfunctional for many reasons. We grow addictions like weeds and dream when we are awake. We have sensitive ears, noisy fingers and loud mouths. We all suffer from the disease of depression but don’t let it stop us from living creative lives. In the best of times, we are eager to live up to our own expectations. In the worst of times, we are lost in self-pity. As for myself, I define myself as a struggling Christian, especially on Sunday, just a vessel doing God’s work. I am a mother, grandmother, a clay artist and a photographer on other days.
I always start my morning with a 30-minute jog around the bedroom. Sometimes I have to stop and think, and forget to start again. I am not a scientist-type who insists everything can be mathematically examined, related and accounted for. As a matter of fact, I am more like a curious child playing in the garden between the two houses of God and Science. Picking flowers from both makes me happy. I can remember as a child, planning on living forever and so far so good! I didn’t know what I do now that when we get older, we wrinkle, shrink and don’t have many good hair days left. We pamper what hair we have left that isn’t gray. The grays we torture by tugging, plugging and/or dyeing. We spend a lot of time looking for our keys and glasses hiding from us. Sometimes our nerves make our limbs begin jumping and jiving when there is no music. We also keep repeating, repeating, repeating, what we know. We all have to contend with gravity. It is the idea that I am a writer that keeps me pounding my computer keys for our mutual wellness.
I am not a teacher or doctor. I am just an ordinary woman living in an extraordinary imperfect word. I am always trying to find a balance between joy and sadness in my life. I don’t think of myself as an expert about what is right for everyone. We’re all teachers for one another. Martin Luther King once said, “Not everyone can be famous. But everyone can be great.” I, myself, have learned with good intentions and some hard work, all of us can be great by staying true to our values, integrity and our own Creator. My own beginning journey with clay, photography and writing brought me more than joy. Expressing myself creatively has been good medicine for me. The ancient Greeks knew this when they appointed Apollo as the god of both poetry and medicine. Even Jesus reminds us what you bring forth will save you. What you do not bring forth from within will destroy you. Some of us even think headaches are really poems waiting to be written. So get rid of that nagging pain of tension in your head, and start writing a poem about writing:
The Pen
I can be quite quaint or curious,
Smear the best or run quite dry,
Many ride me in their pocket,
Or sit me on their ear,
I could make them cry,
I could make them laugh,
I can be black and blue, and/or
Clear and Read, Pride and passion
~
Words are healers whether we are writing them or reading them. Of course, a loving friend can be a healer. A song can be a healer. A celebratory greeting card can be a healer. An image that empowers you can be a healer, much like a photograph, a sculpture, painting or a simply-glazed clay pot.
Sometimes I feel like I’m way out there in Never-Never Land, a strange observer from a strange land. But in truth, creative souls like poets and artists are very much of this world. We just make everything a game. We play connect-the-dots with words and feelings, paying close attention to the sound and flower of our memories, as well as their arrangement on the page. I play connect-the-dots with sentences, images and/or word pictures. I always have a copy of a poem book in front of me when I write. I look for ideas, metaphors or topics that interest me. I’m always looking for an initial thought burst, a memory or a feeling I can blow out of proportion and use in a grand over-indulgent way. “You may discover your best poems while writing your worst prose.” says Joyce Carol Oates. “As soon as you connect with your true subject, you will write.”
If I had to describe my inner poet, I’d say he looked at the world a little eschewed. He lives patiently in me, giving me fragrant hope where there was once none. He inspired me to write although it never occurred to me I could write anything of value. Surprisingly, the more I wrote, the more I had to say. I’ve read an author must be like God, present everywhere but visible nowhere. Somerset Maugham says, “If you can tell stories, create characters, devise incidents, and have sincerity and passion, it doesn’t matter a damn how you write.” Samuel Johnson says, “The two most engaging powers of an author are to make new things familiar, and familiar things new.” When the right words come to me, they are as beautiful and unsought as country wild flowers.
There are many ways of being artful. I like to sit spontaneously doodling and scribbling with permanent gel pens. For other fun ideas, take a look into scrapbooking and revisit your youth when drawing was a fulfilling emotional experience. Try drawing on your computer in the Paint file. Don’t forget to go to art galleries and art museums. Take friends or kids along. Looking at art can be as restoring health-wise as making your own. You can also make yourself an image journey with all the special symbols that tug at your heart. Fill it with photographs, doodles and scribbling. Everyone has fun making it and reading it.
To write poetry I sometimes start out with the words, "I am...or I am silly...or I am afraid...or, I am not like anyone else. You can also write a Pet Peeve Poem, by reacting to a common, everyday annoyance like the phone ringing when you're in the bathroom! Choose a subject that really irritates you enough to be memorable or humorous. Decide if you want your poem to be serious, playful or sarcastic. There is something about our milestones that beg to have their passes marked on paper even our annoyances and mishaps. Our only goal is to be truthful, and if we can fake that on paper, we've got it made. Mark Twain says, "Most writers regard the truth as their most valuable possession, and therefore, are most economical in its use. Elvis Presley says, "Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it isn’t going' away."
There are many ways of introducing transparency and spontaneous imaging to your art. Watercolors can amaze and delight all. Try dipping art sponges and soft brushes into watercolors lightly. Sparingly dab here and there on watercolor paper and see the liquid take form. You will see flowers, trees, grass, even faces as you shower your paper with unintentional wasps here and there. It might help to think of your images like living things. They have breath, purpose and a time to play and a time to evolve. Your only problem is stopping before you ruin them! We doodle and draw to communicate events and experiences we have no words to express. Try your own pen and ink images. Again, it may be easier to let your non-dominant hand dab here and there with soft sponges and brushes, as quickly as you can, and see what your inner artist wants to show you. Then finish your drawings by playing connect-the-dots with your imagination. Don’t be afraid. Even if you consider yourself to be a non-artist like I have most of my life, you can tape into your soul’s palette. We humans were designed to need to express ourselves creatively.
My book is not a technical book on Art Therapy. I am not a doctor; I write for fun and wellness, mine and yours. I hope you can appreciate what I say, the way I say it even if I break all grammar rules along the way. I’d like to recommend the following books to anyone who needs healing from the inside-out by professionals. If you need a more technical and varied look at all the accepted and suggested techniques of Art Therapy, read the following which helped me immensely in my personal journey and in my own book:
The Soul’s Palette by Cathy A. Malchiodi/Art Therapy Activities
The Secret of the Shadow by Debbie Ford/Journaling and Creating with
The Angels by Terry Taylor/Unexpected help from
the Unseen
Writing poetry, journaling and art making are wonderful and creative ways to turn the burning inside our heads into positive thinking, researching and recording. It is almost like celebrating or sharing ourselves without depleting our souls in the process. Cathy Malchiodi, today’s leading authority on Art Therapy says, “The soul’s palette is so many things: an agent of transformation, a therapy for the psyche, a salve for the body and mind, and a remedy for the ills of individuals, communities and the world. Visual images, whether made of canvas or clay, produce profound physical and emotional benefits and were an unending source of inner knowledge. They were a way to get to the soul of the matter, to go on a soul search. Like an artist’s palette that contains an infinite spectrum of colors and choices for creating, our soul’s palette is a boundless source of wisdom and wellness. Expressing yourself creatively through drawing, painting, sculpture, and photography - - allows you to tape into a source of inner wisdom that can provide you guidance, sooth emotional pain, and revitalize your being.”
When I write I understand myself a lot more. I am always struck at how magical and unexpected the process can be. Writing really becomes satisfying when it reflects our best efforts. Writing is kind of like capturing what you know, what you think and what you have to say altogether in one place. Writing by its very nature includes detours, wrong turns, and repeat visits. While some of us work out ideas in our heads, others work our ideas out on paper also like me. Some writers need to talk about their writing, while others would rather keep their ideas to themselves. Writing is sort of like talking without being interrupted. It is like any other skill. It takes a lot of practice and patience to become good at it. Our dreams, hopes and inner voices are worth exploring no matter how ordinary they may seem. Some dreams even feel like on-off events while others feel more like a parallel world still going on even after we wake.
It is our past that often shows up in our dreams although rearranged and unrecognizable. I figure I am on the right tract of translating them when my dreams are a perfect fit to a past or present situation. Those of us who suffer emotional or physical pain try to fix what is broken and/or heal what is hurting when we are sleeping. I imagine there are millions of sleeping heads pouring slat into old wounds not yet healed. Science use to believe the brain was always awake. Now they believe no part of the brain is ever fully awake. I wonder if that is why so many of us daydream.
After a life wrought of beiges, two divorces, and fifty years of depression, my self-expression turned towards poetry, prose and photography. All the while, I was taking a leap of faith by reclaiming myself as a valuable and talented person. I didn’t change and grow all by myself. God and his angels partnered me in my work and instead of being angry at him for all I was not, I began to understand I was blessed with surprising innate ability. Even if I quit in the middle of a project because I didn’t feel the necessity to go on, my effort still evoked commendable response and self-satisfaction as much as any finished piece did. This was, after all, just one of the many gifts of artful expression, the journey being much more important than the finished product.
When I began studying poetry in college, I found some poems can be understood while others, you can’t hope to understand but that is okay, too. Both writing and reading poetry are individual arts. Both can be a study in thinking and relating to the world around us. To write poetry, we need to be able to look at our entire life history, including our traumas, our joys, our failures as well as rewards and achievements. We need to open our minds and step into our poems, tasting their ink and feeling their pull at our hearts. When that perfect image comes to rest in a poem for me, I say, “Thank you God for giving me that!” Many of us prefer the more simple old-fashioned kind of poetry, less negative, bent on healing open wounds rather then describing them. Simple. Short. You pause when they pause. You sigh when they sigh. Composing a poem is a lot like making love. Nobody sees the poem happening but it always arouses us and usually ends too quickly!!! Pictures can inspire us with creative expression. Try writing freely in 5-minute spontaneous bursts while looking at pictures. Writing is a form of talking so talk about your pictures in a poem!
I like to begin by exploring the phrase I am…
I am a poet but then I think “what is a poet?”
What ever it is, I think, it must have food for the soul;
it must have generous Folds of thoughts, And Love,
What ever it is, I think, it must be arrogant,
To coach the sun to rise,
To kiss the day good-bye, and hope,
What ever it is, I think, it is ecstasy remains intact,
With the Birds of God for companions.
~~
THE POEM
Even though I was not the fairest to gaze upon, my smoldering aura embodied the holy, unholy and the human form; I opened my exalted head and body to Pablo Picasso who painted me; I summoned the most evil, known as Satan for a few hot unholy days, then joined Moses and the Greatest Mother of them all, until I tired of their perpetual sermons, on the hills, if I recall; then came a time when I heard the watered-down bellowing of John, Jr., his wife, Caroline and her sister, too; I offered them Water Lilies; then with an impulse to breed, I came upon John Travolta with his wings quivering; reminding me of a night I spent with the arc Angel Michael, I offered him a Lilac blossom from my own bosom laughed; and kissed him long and hard, becoming this poem for you!
~~
Creative expression has always been at war with boredom and unhappiness ever since the days of the cave drawings. It reduces stress, ill health and depression when we’re busy doing something we love. Anyone can make the invisible visible. Draw a picture. Doodle. Scribble like you were a child. Just assembling magazine pictures and photographs into collages make a great pastime. You don’t have to be happy to want to create. Even our pain and depression can be turned into fine art; poetry and prose that can make us smile. When we smile we feel good. Those who witness our efforts and our smiles feel good, too. See how contagious a creative thought, or smile can be.
I will admit when artful thoughts and ideas begin careening at full speed in our mind, they are seldom finished products. They need our involvement. Each creative thought must be painstakingly revised, given shape, put aside and worked on again and again. I even tried many ways of engaging and seducing the perfect thoughts for the perfect writing. I tried meditation. I tried soft low music. I tried herbal baths and incense. I read poetry books making them my friends. I even borrowed their metaphors, almost apologetically, to call my own. I also joined a spa for exercising which helped refresh and revitalize my mind and body. Lastly, I tried chewing gum as some scientists say it supposedly led to an increase in hemoglobin in human brain tissue, actually improving mental functions. I actually typed faster and more accurately when my mouth was busy chewing!
There are many rituals or
exercises we can do to heighten our senses and inspire us to be
artful. One exercise I enjoy doing is just sitting quietly for thirty
seconds or so just doodling or scribbling on a piece of paper in
front of me. Sometimes my hand goes back and forth like a humming
bird looking for a place to land. Sometimes I even do this in the
Paint file on the computer. My mouse is moving around and around
erratically, as if chased by a one-eyed cat. Try it yourself. Try not
to over-think it. Let your hand make erratic stops and starts. Maybe,
use your non-dominant hand. Consider your hands enchanted. As we all
wear our feelings inside out, try smiling. There are no mistakes when
doodling and scribbling our heart’s desires. Don’t worry. We are
not our mistakes. Shut out all thoughts of I can’t. I will do it
wrong. It has taken me much autobiography to shut out all thoughts of
“I can’t!” Spontaneity is a small indulgence for a frugal woman
who is still learning to unleash her inner artist.
Once after doing this exercise, I unexpectedly found nested among my erratic scribbling, what looked like an image of an old familiar perfume bottle. I remembered it as my mom’s favorite. It was called Tabu. Imaginary bittersweet smells of Tabu enveloped me the rest of that day. I could almost feel my mom praising my efforts, wrapping her arms around me. I needed reminding my mom did not just go off to some dark and distant place when she passed months earlier. She still had presence. This is the blessing of irony and serendipity when it gladdens our days with unexpected paranormal gifts with beneficial consequences. This is your inner artist who wants to talk to you. Look for his messages.
Make yourself a plan to feel good on rainy or open-ended days by stocking op on things you are interested in like paper, crayons or watercolors. Also, stock up on ingredients for brownies, Jell-O or fudge. Who says you can’t eat art? Needlework like crocheting or knitting can be fun to those who enjoy numbers. You can pick up some self-help or instruction books that encourage and teach as well as entertain. Keeping art books on a handy display is also a good idea. You will be amazed at just how much they soak in. Stretch your mind. Use ordinary items in unexpected ways. Remember it is not about having all the right things but experimenting with what you do have. Like kids, we all can be masters at finding fun uses for household supplies. Not long ago, I made a three-foot high sculpture with nothing but hot glue and wooden clothespins. It was great fun and accredited as a unique piece by my art teacher.
Let the symbols around you choose you. Delight in them. Follow them. Listen for the ecstasy of understanding their blessings. Be playful when making them your friends. Also, take photographs that excite you. Follow your instincts for capturing nature at its best. Explore the new digital camera and it’s convenience in sending pictures over the internet. Each day will include exploration, adventure and amazement when taking an artful step out into the world. In every season, there are pictures of beauty around us. Even in the winter time no two snowflakes or icicles are the same. So take your camera out into the light of reality and see what you can find to photograph.
Creating something out of nothing like drawing or even taking pictures make us feel good. It makes those who witness our work feel good. It is that simple. Happiness does not always depend on faith, or moral virtue, still less on good fortune, though all of these may contribute to it. Happiness comes also from self-expression. Expressing ourselves in any form is an important as balanced nutrition and regular exercise. If you enjoy Mother Nature, go on a road trip and look for scenes that thrill and energize you. If you love glass and ceramics like me, you can visit ceramic shops. They will inspire and teach you to glaze pots, vases and figures they have on shelves. You could also take a Ceramic course or Sculpturing class at your local college like I did. There is no better and easier way to immortalize your soul than by molding clay. I learned to make my own plates, cups and vases out of wet clay, reveling in the fact that they will be around far longer. I also fell in love with free-styling clay figures that inspired me with their mysterious beauty and fascination.
JOURNALING
Journaling our lives can also bring peace where there was none before. Of course, when we write about ourselves, we are the experts. Who else would know our secret thoughts, hopes and dreams? When digging around in our memories for something to write about, I remember mom and pops telling me stories since I was a child. One of my favorites was when I was a toddler. They told me I often threw my glass baby bottles at the newly invented television pops so proudly brought home for us. It wouldn’t stop talking and I was jealous of all the attention it was getting. My bottles-turned-missiles were always aimed at the glass-screen. Well, pops weaned me right away by throwing my baby bottles out the door in anger. I learned that change-of-attitude could be a good thing. When I cried for my bottle, Pops gave me a cool bottle of Coke. It fit my hands so much better and I laughed when it tickled my nose and slide down my belly so smoothly. The television became my companionship, education and entertainment for many years to come. I grew to be an impassioned sponge-like gal who loved to express herself visually. I will confess all that I have done is not golden. However, it feels golden to please my inner child and myself.
LOOKING FOR SELF-LOVE IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES
When I was a young single mother, I remember wearing too much rouge and lipstick, high heels and black pinafores. I let my breasts hang unobstructed almost reaching out for love and companionship like so many other young girls. Even under a bed of twinkling stars, no lover could fill the emptiness in my gut. I was a tormented angry soul unsure of myself or my potential. I was drunk from pain, burnt like wood, and rendered a couch potato. I didn’t know I was suffering from depression. I just thought I was unlucky in love and life, easily locked into addictions of alcohol, drugs and obesity. As I look back that swollen festering woman was not who I wanted to be. So, I wrote a lot of poetry:
A TIMELY POEM
There’s never enough time, Wanting you or not, I’ve solaced myself, Waiting for buses on Broadway, Getting me to my 9:00 x 5:00, My hat sometimes taking wing, My dress dancing to an unheard melody, While admirers look on, Pigeons squatted, Screaming for more room, More food, Always more food, Not wanting the others to think me Ordinary, I wore a mask, I was an actress for sure, I was Mary Tyler Moore. There’s never enough time You busy in your world Me busy in mine, Wanting you, Or not, To talk and to cuddle Would answer my prayers, I seem to have lost my Tongue, my lips, my smiles, My eyes are lost without you, I will find them only when You return, I cannot find enjoyment, My days soiled without you, Forlorn prose and Bleeding Rhyme humor me, as I sing for you and Only you.
~~
There were grim encounters of attracting and repelling men I wrongly thought would complete me. It surprised me like my pops, most came and went without much regard to my needs. When I held back sex a reasonable time, men grew impatient complaining, it took too long to turn me on. When I gave in one-night stands, they said I was too easy to turn on. And then, there were those who said, I was more trouble than I was worth - period. Those might have been the healthiest of them all. Many left me with an ecstasy that left me golden toasty for years. Others left me somewhere in between crazy and almost crazy with an unsittable itch while weeping from room to room.
One decorated my life. After I lost him, I stopped looking for a man to fulfill my needs. There were still times when I liked to be the center of attention with my quick wit, flirting eyes and sexy body. I wished I had spent less time looking at myself in that dance-floor mirror. No matter how good I looked, my appearance never defined who I really was or who I wanted to someday be. Nobody knew I was lonely and sad. I was always the actress with my mind engaged in noisy internal dialogues, self-defeating habits and abusive behaviors. Many men were my temporary fix, you know, like comfort food. I wonder if I was their comfort food, too? There is a faint melody still beating in my chest for that young woman who loved to dance in the spotlight and pretend she was special.
I was dumped by my fair share of men. I heard dozens of explanations I think it was because I didn’t really understand we cannot manipulate or control love. Each time I gave myself sexually, I hoped it would buy me more time and more loving. When it didn’t, I prayed to God, what was I to do now?_ Offering him bribes late at night while drifting into a fitful sleep, I’d pray, “Dear Lord, if you bring him back to me, I promise I will do anything!” When I complained to mom she always warned me. “Forget their flattering words, choosing them we lose ourselves.” My unrequited lovers still visit me in dreams. My daughters have taken over where I left off despite my constant nagging. They are chasing men to fulfill their dreams instead of looking within. To be honest, I still yearn to turn back the click and rediscover the joy of guiding old lovers to my secret places, reminding them, I need only what you can give me to once more feel loved. Longing still stirs my marrow come night fall no matter how old I get. (Do we all lie lonely?)
Because being loved by others was not always as satisfying as I hoped, each loss watered my disease of depression until I could no longer hide my dysfunction. My face and hands began to swell and my wobbly legs no longer let me dance. My memory came and went as did my chronic pain. My depression didn’t permit self-love or good self-esteem. It wanted me to ask for nothing and expect nothing. It made me deaf to the needs of others; loving it when I was sad, sick and bored. I had not yet learned the joy of self-love. I was in my forties, when I finally turned to the magical intensive healing of Art Therapy when I was too ill to do anything else as often happens with creative souls yearning to be set free.
I was in the midst of an emotional and mental crisis brought on once, again, by another breakdown from depression. “Why me?” I cried, feeling the full weight of self-pity. After a long hospital stay, and a period of medication and counseling for depression, the nurses once again introduced me to pencils and crayons. They told, I had the time even if I didn’t have the will to go on. Angrily, I obliged them by filling pages with doodles and scribbling, which came natural to me. They always ended up torn to threads piled on the floor.
Everybody laughed at me. At first this just made me angrier. After a while, I began laughing, too, at the absurdity of acting like a child at forty. As for my renderings, I didn’t have to worry if they were bad as bad can be. No one really cared. I found a safe place to hide and heal.
I began liking expressing myself so much in the arts that when I got out of the hospital, I decided to take some writing and art courses. I began a decade of art intensive therapy. It wasn’t easy. I still had the pain to deal with and there was little money and lots of bills. I worried my poems might break in pieces at any moment when I hadn’t paid my electric bill. One day I was caught up in sadness and the next I was manically throwing myself into creativity. Because I am a perfectionist, I thought my work was never good enough until I read that Henri Matisse, the famous painter, once confessed he, too, felt bad he never painted like everybody else. When he was too ill to sit up and paint, he had a piece of coal tied to a long stick, to enable him to draw on a piece of paper attached to the ceiling over his hospital bed. I guess we’re never too young or too old, or too ill to have the desire to create. John Russell, the art critic, observed, “There is in art a clairvoyance for which we have not yet found a name, and still less an explanation.” I found there was nothing like replacing my depression while keeping busy doing something I loved. I was surprised to find a fresher, less tormented self, as well as a newfound confidence I could not have prophesied.
MAKING ART
When contemplating art making, some of us need a peaceful, quiet sanctuary to work in; while others may need the sound of water of the clatter of conversation coming from the television. Some mothers might want to watch their children sleep a while before heading excitedly to their computers to write their hearts. Others might do some exercising to get their blood flowing to their brain. Do whatever it takes to inspire you to get moving an artful way. When you are in emotional or physical crisis like I was, we get caught up in unhealthy relationships and behaviors. I will admit I drank till I could drink no more. I dated till I could date no more. I sat around for years doing nothing by watching television and reading self-help books trying to become a better me, happier me. I finally threw myself into creative expression having a lot to say and needing a way to say it. For those of you who may think you are not creative, who have left your creativity alone for too long like me, go ahead, gift yourself some time to stretch your imagination like an athlete stretches his muscles before a big race. To do this, I begin by sitting in a chair, reciting affirmations, praying and/or listening to New Age Music. The bells and whistles chime long traditions and peaceful new beginnings. I think about the angel Michael who is known for inspiring us to open our minds to new ways of thinking.
Being in the flow of art is a spiritual awakening feeling much like journaling. It is sort of like meditating which is like losing yourself in the moment. Before getting down to work, I always tried affirming myself as a person of value, talented enough and naive enough to rewrite my life. Before getting down to journaling, I begin a ritual of stretching a ritual of stretching my neck back and forth, and rolling my head in a circled while thinking about what it is I want to write about. I found it best to unclothe myself of negative doubt, and invite new ideas and boundless energy into my body. I often say a prayer for guidance and inspiration. When in tune with my inner artist, I am unstoppable. Strong. Able. Creative. I think about how hard my hands and fingers have worked for me; and, how often they gave me a sense of fulfillment. I thanked God for my natural abilities and prayed to be a tool of his love and creativity. If you are hurting and needing some tender loving care, try expressing yourself by doodling, scribbling, drawing, painting, sculpture and/or photography. They all allow you to tape into a source of inner wisdom that can provide you guidance, sooth emotional pain and revitalize your being.
CLAY AND SCULPTURE
Kneading clay is pure therapy not only for our souls but for our tired arthritic hands. Our world can be fresh with wonder and meaning when we bring something new into existence, something never seen before. We simply have to let our hands work their magic. I agree with Oliver Wendell Holmes’ words, a mind, stretched to new ideas, never goes back to its original dimensions.
Most of us need to express ourselves the most when we feel we can’t. But once we do, we change forever for the better. It is discomfort and lack of faith in our innate gifts that prevent us from the happiness and joy we want and need. Those of us who have found the fountain of youth in our special purpose regret to sleep while the rest regret to wake not knowing their special purpose. Perhaps, living a joyful successful life is just a matter of living the life we were meant to live. I was not one of those instant successes you hear about when I began studying clay at college. My instructors never hailed me as promising student of ceramics or sculpture. As a matter of fact, many including my instructors, laughed at my beginning efforts. I found that clay is nature’s cheapest and most abundant art supply. It is a malleable substance that can be molded into most any shape with the surface remaining smooth and unbroken. Its best quality in my mind was its forgiving ways. With clay nothing was permanent until it was baked in a kiln. Clay allowed me to create images in three-dimensions. I modeled pots, vases and figures, turning them around and around in front of me on a lazy Suzanne. From every point of view, my hands worked to get out what was hidden. I used only a few sculpturing knifes, brushes, and sponges. But, when I got excited, I used both my hands. Sculpting and modeling clay become pure therapy when God set our pace.
A THOUSAND EYES POEM
When twilight chases day, Heavens twinkled with the delight Of a thousand artists’ eyes, The day but one, a fireball called The Sun, to help us get our day’s work Done, When twilight chases day, Heavens twinkled with the delight Of a thousand artists’ eyes, All called upon to pay their due, Writers must write, painters must Paint, musicians are most blessed Of all, for their work, they get to Play for you!
~~
It does not look like much when wet clay is being layered onto an armature in the form of a human head. When I am birthing new characters, each sculptured face puts up a fight within me for a chance to be. “Pick me” ”No, pick me,” their muffled voices cry out to me. Primitive skeleton-looking men and women visit me tenaciously, all different yet the same; with more clay layering in an additive state, they gradually turn into younger hardier adults; and later with more fiddling and fixing, they turn into their own swollen cheeked big-eyed children. Their expressive eyes and energetic intensity give them a joyful reflection and awe lost to most adults. I am like a jeweler who created an original gem from an ordinary piece of rough stone. All its polished faces contribute equally to its creative expression, fascination and beauty. I have to admit it so pleasures me to have so much control. Kneading clay was pure therapy for me. It took a while for me to realize art affect people in many meaningful ways including the artist. My most successful pieces are too simple to imagine. Serendipity loves simplicity! If you really do not believe in the serendipity of the unseen, leave yourself a wormhole for escape when you are writing or art making. The unknown will sneak into your work in a good way when you least expect. It takes time to communicate with our inner artist.
Many of my art pieces look more like photographs of nature than the drippings of serendipity. They were surely touched by my guardian angels. Where ever our paths cross with creative thought messages, there is union with God and his angels. Even if evidence is visibly lacking, you do not need to meditate on top of a mountain for twenty years to be welcomed into the angelic realm. Most of us can’t maintain state of God consciousness for prolonged periods of time but we have occasional glimpses of it when we’re in the flow. Don’t take my word for it, the next time you’re daydreaming imagine your guardian angels there with you. Acknowledge their presence at a pool and they will dance for you on the walls or in the water. Imagine being heart-to-heart with our guardian angels who are our best fans.
I tangled with loved ones who ridiculed and laughed at me when I told them how well I was doing now that I had clay. At times I went off silently angry at their indifference and disinterest in my newfound friend. Maybe, they were jealous when they told me, “You’ll never get rich that, playing in the mud like children”. Sometimes I laughed at them and their ignorance I felt richer and happier than I had in years. I found self-acceptance is paramount to having compassion for others. I finally found a way to express myself and forgive others. I found joy. I found self-love. I finally realized each of us is special. We are packed with unique abilities to gladden the hearts of others and leave the world a better place than when we found it.
In my sixties, I am still a young soul passionately concerned about joy, involved in it, and in search of it. With my child wonder still so easily accessible, there was nothing too ridiculous to be considered when contemplating the erotica of joy. I have learned to take comfort where I can, alone in my sand box when I was little; or when I was a teenager, cooking, sewing and crocheting; or in the bedroom as a young woman. Now I look to writing or photography as well as savoring special moments of insight I get from reading. I have learned we can spend a lifetime wanting more, always chasing happiness, or simply decide to consciously want less and appreciate what we have and who we are.
Our imagination can inspire us spiritually, mirror our secret thoughts and embody our many emotions. Our imagination hugs us with possibilities. Sometimes when I cock my head just right, I can still imagine myself frolicking in the healing downpour of the fountain of youth with the other stone maidens lucky enough to follow their Casanova into eternity. On-lookers would be throwing pennies at us making wishes of their own. It is fun to imagine our heart’s desires.
I guess because I am a dreamer, I have an extraordinary capacity to deeply find the highest of highs, the lowest if lows, and every shade of emotion in between. It is at night when I get my clearest and most exciting ideas for poetry and writing. I lay stretching my body and my mind to all possibilities. It never bothered me how far I had to go to disappear into a dream. Even Jung tells us, “Many of us were given direct inspiration for art through dreams guiding us and pointing us in the direction of our true inner self, toward whatever we needed to resolve, create or transmit; we were so captivated by and entangled in our subjective consciousness that we have forgotten the age-old fact that God speaks chiefly through dreams and visions.”
In a world awash with so many ways to enjoy ourselves, it surprised me when I read that Taoist Master Lau-Tzu suggested, “Practice not-doing and everything will fall into place.” Nothing ever fell into place for me when I was sitting around doing nothing. Again, I had a change of attitude when I was sitting my first day at college in a sculpturing class with a lump of moist clay in front of me on the table. I just let my hands dig into it, when I talked and laughed with a classmate sitting next to me. The moist clay felt cool and relaxing on y already sore arthritic hands, putting me in a peaceful kind of mind. I lost tract of time as I pinched, pulled and savored the clay in front of me. I remember getting reprimanded by the teacher for talking and laughing instead of paying attention to what I was doing. Like magic by the end of class that day, the lump of moist clay turned into a 12-inch abstract sculpture of a lady dancing! I later wrote a poem about her. Everyone was amazed even the teacher - -even me! I did not know where she came from exactly but I suspected she was me and we were happy doing what we were doing. The dancer was the first of many that mysteriously appeared like unending gifts for my self-esteem. Who would have guessed on the inside I was laughing and dancing? All my work was spontaneously sculpted within a very short time without models or preplans. My hands just flew. This is just another example of my not doing and giving control over to our hands. I learned to even let my non-dominant hand draw and sculpt as a way of further letting go and letting loose.
THE ART OF GRIEVING
When my mom died in my home just a couple weeks earlier in my arms, I was lost in grief and began throwing clay onto an armature in a vicious attack needing a way out of my pain. Bereavement is not easy for us who selfishly want our loved ones close to us for our own comfort. I was not prepared to let her go even after months of watching her health decline. My grief seemed to give my hands wings to express my pain. They flew around fiercely in a way I can only compare to - - automatic writing. The figure quickly became my mom. Whenever my spirit needs reviving, I can look at her, touch her sculpture and talk to her. Sometimes it takes longer to digest art than to make it. I gave her a place in my home close to my heart and wrote poems about her.
After clay, I turned to poems, illustrations and even photographs of old barns to speak for me. They intrigued me as they stood alone in fields aching for attention. It did not take a genius to see how Mother Nature wrapped her arms around them and us, too, with quiet strength and compassionate beauty, holding us up to high expectations. I did not take pictures for others. I took them for my own peace and wellness. Photography can be a lot of fun and a great emotional release. Photographs also make great gifts. They are a great way to record your world. Subtly all my years of creative expression turned my feeling good to others feeling good; sweeping me into a kind of story that was bigger than I ever intended. I was not always a willing participant in God’s plan for me. To be honest, if I hadn’t been ill, I would never have had the opportunity or the time to explore the arts. There were even times when I wanted to run away from the black letters pouring from my heart into print. I stuffed a lot of pain away for a lot of years. Unfortunately for those like me, fear often dictates how much love, happiness, and success we think we are or are not worthy of.
Effexor XR has a Self-Quiz on the internet to take if you think you might be suffering from depression. Do you have these symptoms? Constant sadness Lack of Motivation Irritability Trouble Concentrating Feelings of isolation, not as involved With family and friends Loss of interest in favorite activities Hopelessness Feeling worthless or guilty for no reason Thoughts of death or suicide Fatigue Low energy Trouble sleeping Significant weight change. Do these symptoms affect your ability to be yourself and function on a daily basis? Do your symptoms interfere with your interaction with family and friends, or your enjoyment of favorite hobbies or activities? If you have many of these symptoms, seek out a health care professional or talk with your doctor about the disease that makes so many of us losers instead of winners.”
MOMS AND DAUGHTERS
We do not always see eye-to-eye when we are too close for comfort. We have imprinted in our genes, all the good and all the bad, all the talents and all the vices that make us all unique. There is something almost mystical about the relationship between mothers and daughters. Mom and I lost and found each other over and over. It was not until I had my own kids that I finally realized errors, hesitations and human failings can be repaired where there is love.
Expressing ourselves in any form is an important as balanced nutrition and regular exercise. If you enjoy Mother Nature, go on a road trip and look for scenes that thrill and energize you. If you love glass and ceramics like me, you can visit ceramic shops. They will inspire and teach you to glaze pots, vases and figures they have on shelves. You could also take a Ceramic course or Sculpturing class at your local college like I did. There is no better and easier way to immortalize your soul than by molding clay. I learned to make my own plates, cups and vases out of wet clay, reveling in the fact that they will be around far longer. I also fell in love with free-styling clay figures that inspired me with their mysterious beauty and fascination.
In one of my spontaneous pictures, I show a mother figurine looking into a pond as if it was a crystal ball, trying to find just the right words to tell her daughter how much she loves and needs her. A daughter figurine dancing to the right of her mother is caught up in her own thoughts almost unaware of the power she has over her mom. Later, I sculpted the two rather generic heads thinking about how our world would be if science started designing kids in test tubes absent of a mother and father.
CLONED BABIES/A FUTURISTIC POEM
Earth, is damn mad now, her rain forest so beautiful and strategically placed are gone because men needed toothpicks and chairs to sit their lives on, ballooned-heads press their light-sensitive eyes against the protective plate glass of their man-made bubble empire, The Fields of corn, wheat and all the good things we love to eat are gone, The sun fatally dangerous now with little ozone layer in between, No green grass, only clay and sandy ground cover remain, No cows, milk, chickens, nor eggs; only nutritious red and orange chemical capsules with added steroids to purge on, Not Russia nor USA, Chinese, every imprisoned yet saved. Only unisex babies are born now, incapable of love or emotional thirst, Sexual preference and degree of intellect are now a matter of scientific design, Those men and women who escaped scientific design are considered genetic mutants, and can Be found in a new kind of zoo. Mankind now practices levitation, and uses much more of their brain. There is no need to talk or sing, and can be described as: Open vacuums of knowledge with Mona Lisa-smiles!
~~
SPONTANEOUS IMAGES
I learned to create many spontaneous images in the Paint file, starting out with squares, slashes, circles and squiggles. Later, my imagination and inner artist helped me play connect-the-dots with the marks on the page. I drew in a young girl like I once was, hiding behind long bangs; and my mom, was laying down to the desires of others rather than me; up in the left hand corner was a loyal horse in waiting to privilege his riders before the sun goes down. In the far right hand corner was my deceased pops watching over me from the city that never sleeps. Spontaneous imaging does not require talent, time or planning ahead. Anyone can draw on the computer. All lines define shapes, express rhythms, and take us from one fun place to another! For those who exclaim, “I can’t even draw a straight line! Never could!” There is no wrong way to draw a line.
Nothing in Mother Nature is ruler straight, no trees, no stems nor grass blades. As a matter of fact, some philosophers tease us by saying, straight lines most probably only existed in our imaginations! Picasso, Matisse, and Jung believed for every spontaneous action there is a consequential story that begins within us and works its way out through the tips of our fingers. It takes no talent. No thought. Not a great deal of time or education. If I can do it anymore can. When we are playing connect-the-dots with our imagination, our inner artist has the ability to point out the obvious of which our intellect has failed to grasp. If you are uneasy and don’t know what is bothering you, give your hands the freedom to scribble across the page. They just might you the answers you are seeking. One afternoon I was drawing circles with my non-dominant hand, not paying much attention to what I was doing. I thought I was drawing flowers. After I was finished, I saw big circles and little circles. I guess I was in an angry defensive mood. I always had a hard time expressing my anger. I began filling the circles with big eyes, wrinkles, age spots and mouths. The figures quickly began resembling my parents. When, it was them against me! This is a good example of letting our hands tell us what is bothering us. I was still angry at my parents for dying and leaving me all alone. I wondered how my hands knew that I was angry after all these years.
POEM FOR MY MOM & DAUGHTERS
A kick here and there for my Mom, my daughters and me, Rivalry inscribed from birth to grave Sweet kisses turning into salty tears Do as I say not as I do! Silent wars, screaming hostility, Who is right? Who is not? With pods revolting and roots diving deep for refuge Caffeine, Nicotine and Prozac Swallowing our kingliest bliss Mother/Daughters flags of far too many dimensions to unfurl on paper.
~~
To begin spontaneous images I start out drawing squares, slashes, circles and squiggles without much intent. It didn’t take long for me to begin seeing angel children playing in the water. They obviously needed wings to fly around us; eyes and mouths to speak God’s word. I just let my hands speak for them. Try your on spontaneous imaging and start looking at your drawings carefully. Play connect-the-dots and fill in what is missing in the drawing that comes to your mind. I often write poems to accompany my drawings:
THE BEATING OF ANGEL WINGS
Listen for the sweet melodic music of Mozart, and the beating of angel wings, breathing a pure and holy feeling into all who welcome them, for those who believe and pray for help, Welcome the guardian angels, God will surely send, as I. For once in such a moment somewhere in my soul, a pure and holy feeling came over me. I thought I died and had gone to heaven, and I decided it was okay; I even wanted to stay but my guardian angel insisted I return. Like flowers drawing their life from the sun, her love filled my lungs with love to share with others when she escorted me home.
~~
The arrival of faith in my life has been a gradual process. As a matter of fact, the journey toward God has been so gradual for me that I have been unaware of much of it. There was no burst of light, no burning bush just a gradual cleansing of fog hiding God’s plan for my life. I have heard since there are an infinite number of angels, the greatest service anyone can pay the angelic hosts are to never consciously limit the ways they make themselves available for us. I think this must be true, as spontaneous writing and drawing at the keyboard leaves windows open for my guardian angels and muses to magically partner me when I am creating. They show my hands how to speak. There are few if God and his angels. I know they have appeared to me for my own benefit, because the writer, artist and woman in me, needs their involvement in my life. I understand angels transcend the logic of our existence but most of us believe in a higher power so why not believe in his angels? It occurs to me all that I am and all that I have accomplished is a tribute to my mom and pops despite and in spite of my constant denial.
All that I righted in my life; any heart I brightened, or any burden I squashed was because of my parents. They were like gardeners planting bits and pieces of themselves into me. They taught me to work hard and believing in the universal rule that what goes around comes around. They taught me to be creative and believe that I can make anything I want or need. Despite the fact that I felt neglected as a child, I was always well fed and knew they were busy in the next room, not far from me. I am still their little girl with my aged heart on fire for their love and approval. My own kids shot across the sky into infinity, forever impervious to my own mediocre mothering. My parents helped me raise them, too, like most grandparents do. Now I am helping raise my grandchildren in between pages of this book. As adults, my kids are now writers of their own destiny, sculpturing their own lives despite what I want for them. They carry with them my love, my wit and my good intentions as well as my many apologies for cutting them short on opportunities for growth.
I have two grown boys. Both suffer from depression. One works and his depression haven’t taken over his life. The younger has been dysfunctional since he was a teenager; he has been in and out of rehabs and making suicide attempts over and over. I also have two grown daughters, one takes medication and one refuses to take medication. It upsets her balance somehow. Both drift from place to place looking for someplace or something to complete them. I have a younger brother who committed suicide rather than watch our mom die years ago. He also suffered from depression especially after serving in Viet Nam. We were estranged as brother and sister, always keeping a record of our wrongs. The first time I ever touched him, I found him dead on the floor. I am hoping my own kids will all at some point come to understand what Corinthians 13 reminds us, that love does not keep a record of wrongs, love is not happy with evil, but is happy with the truth. Love never gives up. Its faith, hope and patience never fail. Love is eternal. There is faith, hope and love; of these three the greatest is love.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-27 show above.)